


Unexplained Overages

by missema



Series: Sword and Snark [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Assassins, Babies, Chloroform, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Kid Fic, Kissing, New Parents, Party, Prompt Fic, Retribution, Snark, Snowboarding, Tumblr Prompt, historical tropes, just like tagging things retribution tbh, missing people, supplication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-18 06:56:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12383172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missema/pseuds/missema
Summary: Norina Hawke and Bran Cavin in mostly prompt/short fills. The setting is both the regular canonical time and modern Kirkwall.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: “You need to stop leaving dead bodies in my kitchen.”

He knew what that thump meant. Bran got up from his bed, sighed and pushed his feet into the slippers that sat next to his side of the bed. He knew what the ominous, dull thud had meant and he had to deal with it. He made a stop on the way down to the kitchen, his steps quickened by the need to make sure that all was well, though he was sure that thump signified the end of any threat.

It was a good thing he hadn't been asleep. In bed, yes, but Bran had a hard time sleeping most nights. There were many reasons, both good and bad to blame, but most of them were not of his doing, which did save his mind from some stress. He thought about this as he made his way silently down the stairs, a most useful trick he'd been taught. He used it more at the Viscount's Keep than he did in his private life, making quick, quiet exits or unobserved entrances.

She was there, as he expected her to be, standing just over the corpse. The other woman, yes, he was sure this departed had been a woman in life, was clad in black from head to toe, much like the one standing over her, the clear victor of their encounter. No blood came from the body on his kitchen floor, and yet he was utterly sure she was dead.

"Another one?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at his wife. Nori gave a hard laugh.

"Must you ask such things?"

He sighed, taking her point. "Was this one coming for you or me?"

"This lovely lady is all yours. She said that you'd pay, yadda, yadda. Honestly I can't believe she'd thought she'd actually get it in, let alone make it to cutting your throat. I didn't quite catch what she was mad about."

“You need to stop leaving dead bodies in my kitchen.”

"It's our kitchen, Bran, and she was just outside the cellar door. She was trying to pick the lock when I came by to do a sweep."

He could thank the Maker his former criminal and ex-mercenary wife took an active hand in their private security, but most nights Bran was too worried that she'd come home injured to be thankful for her protection. He could pay for additional guards, but Nori liked the action. She saw far less of it these days, though she claimed it never crossed her mind to go running up Sundermount with a blade between her shoulders and a mage at her back. He knew she was lying, that it was much a part of her as avarice was part of him. Nori stayed in Kirkwall for him, for their family, and stopped being its Champion for the sake of her own sanity.

"The children are safe," Bran told her, forestalling her next question. "I checked before I came to see whom you were dumping on the kitchen floor."

"I checked their windows after I dispatched her, but nothing was amiss. All traps in place," Nori said, looking away from him with her hands on her hips. His eyes traced them, outlined in black leather that clung so very attractively. "And I can have Bethany set more wards."

All four of his children were in residence at the moment, the three he and Nori shared and his eldest son, though he was hardly a boy. The smaller children weren't yet over the age of ten, and it was for them that Bran worried the most. He'd send the note to Bethany himself, for all the good it would do. Getting in touch with her was easier when she was in the Gallows, but he didn't wish for those times again. Just the thought of them made Bran chill. The end of Meredith's reign had not been fun for anyone in the city, least of all the mages.

Bethany was still free, and when he wrote to her, she'd come again in the dead of night as she always did. It was all they could do, he knew, understanding Nori's inarticulate frustration as she searched the body in front of him, looking more for clues than loot. People would always find a way to make both of them a target, especially now that Nori was going to abdicate in favor of Varric. He was better suited to the job after his time with the Inquisition, and she wanted to spend more time with their children. Bran was happy to keep on working, though with a different Viscount, he'd certainly feel the strain of long days more keenly.

Her mind must have been running along similar lines, for when she met his gaze again she mused," I wonder if I will be more or less vigilant when I am at home all day. Letting familiarity fill in the details of all the places I know without actually noticing them."

"We could move house," he suggested, but she shrugged. The danger would still be the same after the period of adjustment, and their defenses would need to be renewed.

"Let's call some of the guard to come get this lost soul before we do anything else. I don't want to put the children off their breakfast tomorrow morning," she said, and he, as always a few steps ahead, opened the door at the knock that sounded. The servant he'd sent out when he first heard the noise was back, guard in tow. Over the dead body in their kitchen, Nori smiled at him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Fuck I feel like I got hit by a car… Wait I did? And it was your car?”

Maker, he must be having a nightmare. All around him, Bran could hear the muted, strained sounds of people talking but none of it made any sense. He couldn't make out the words. It was like being trapped in a tunnel where the light was variable and the walls were closing in, and he was glad to drop off to sleep again just to get away from the feeling. If there was pain, he was unaware of it, but at that point, he wasn't very aware that he had a body either.

When Bran woke up, it was evident that he was in bed, though he didn't remember getting into bed. At least he was at his own house, laying in the semi-darkness of his own bedroom, the one he shared with Norina. The room was filled with the rich autumnal colors they both loved, and he was momentarily comforted by that familiarity. It was his room, but none of the things that should be on were. The lights were off and his computer, always present nearby, wasn't open on the desk like normal. Though the curtains were drawn, it was evident it was midday, the sun poking through the places where the heavy velvet curtains didn't quite close. What was he doing in bed during the day?

"You're awake," Nori said, some relief evident in her voice. He tried to sit up to see where her voice came from, but his vision swam as soon as he tried hoisting herself upright. His arms ached, actually every single fucking part of him was throbbing with pain, now that he thought about it. A hand pushed him gently back towards the bed where he landed gratefully into the softness of the pillow he'd been trying to ease up from.

“Fuck. I feel like I got hit by a car…"

"You did, and I am so sorry," she said, and he shook his head trying to make sense of the words. "Do you remember?" Nori asked.

"Wait I did?" he asked, the usual unctuous note in his voice replaced by groggy fear. 

"I didn't meant to! It was raining and I couldn't see you. Or your hair. You were wearing that damn hat I hate," she said, the explanations growing more plaintive as they went on. She was begging him to understand already, her tone already pleading with him.

"And it was your car?” Bran asked, still muzzy, though a picture was beginning to form in his mind.

"I didn't see you Bran, honest. I would have at least swerved if I had."

"Wait, back up. What the hell happened?" Bran asked, voice groggy with pain medication and healing magic. He could taste it now, the weirdly sweet and tangy flavor that always stuck around far too long after he'd been healed magically. It was like eating a sweet barbecue sauce for so long that she couldn't taste it anymore until he stopped, and then everything tasted like it.

"You weren't in the crosswalk, and you slipped when you were crossing the street in front of the Viscount's Keep. I didn't realize you were there. It was raining," Nori explained. There was definite contrition in her tone, though it did little to mollify the growing anger in him. She'd hit him with her car. His car. He'd been hit by his own fucking car by his wife.

"Some of your bruising was from the fall you took. That's why it's taken you a while to wake up, your head injury was from falling, not the collision. Careless as I can be, I was keeping to the slow speed in front of the Keep."

"Sweet Andraste, you hit me at work? Oh Nori," he said. She came to sit near him on the bed, his hand carefully taking a hand.

"Nothing's broken anymore," she said. "I made sure. I honestly didn't see you. You know I'd never hurt you on purpose."

"When did you hit me?" he asked, and she winced.

"A day and a half ago," she admitted.

"You won't mind if I go back to sleep, will you?" he asked, and then rolled away without waiting for an answer. His head turned away from her, she couldn't see that his eyes were still open and that he was fuming. He could hear that it had been an accident, knew logically she was already sorry and asking for his forgiveness, but damn he was furious. Not just because she'd hit him but because now he was laying here, in this bed, and would be advised to do nothing, to be nothing until he was healed.

She wouldn't have been his wife if she didn't understand. He closed his eyes when she got up off the bed, and Bran felt the absence of her weight as the mattress sprung back without her. She came to the other side of the bed, pulled his laptop from wherever it was and plugged it in, setting it on his nightstand. Her footsteps retreated again, but she came back with a tray and a bolster, which he didn't know until she stood over him and said, "Bran, open your eyes."

He did, mulishly, like a child caught faking an illness by their mother. She handed him the tray, pulled him upright with no small amount of complaining from him and stuck the bolster behind his back. When he was seated, his head light from the experience of moving so quickly, she plunked the laptop down in front of him and opened it. She'd said sorry and that was all he was going to get from her when it came to apologies. He'd get more, later.

"There are several messages that need your attention urgently, Bran," she told him. "I'm going to get my laptop and you some water so we can get to work before the day ends."

He smiled at her as she walked out, watching her hips sway as she left. He could make up a day and half's worth of work in one night, if they got started soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Who wouldn’t be angry you ate all of my cereal and faked your death for three years!”

She was sitting in his kitchen when he woke up, as if she belonged there. It was audacious enough that he was sure it was her, even when he thought he was dreaming. Bran knew it wasn't a dream when she got up and put her bowl in the sink and started looking through his cabinets.

"Champion," he said, crossing his arms over his chest and simply staring at his deceased wife. Norina Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, Lady Amell, had once been his bride.

"Do you have any more cereal?" she asked without looking over her shoulder. "Maker, I've got a hollow leg today."

"What are you doing here?" he asked, proud that he stilled himself before he ran over and took her in his arms. Her disappearance had been devastating to him, and he'd imagined her returning just like this for over three years now. 

"I'm having breakfast if you've got more cereal. I suppose I could have toast," she said, pausing as if giving it real thought. She turned to face him for the first time and smiled. "I thought you'd welcome me home with more than questions."

"You're not welcome," he began hotly, but took a breath and calmed himself. "This isn't your home," he tried, making sure to smooth out the rough edges of his voice.

"You're angry, Bran?"

“Who wouldn’t be angry?! You ate all of my cereal and faked your death for three years!”

"Bah, cereal. Who cares about cereal? And I wasn't faking. It was just inconvenient for me to be alive. But I'm back and I'm sorry and I've missed you. I've got three years of sex with you to make up for and if you're amenable, I'm definitely eager."

She was deliberately being crass so she wouldn't have to answer his questions, he knew that. But she was so lovely with her long dark hair hanging straight around her face, a face that he knew better than any and loved so completely that he still wasn't immune to the effect of seeing it. If she touched him, he would be lost.

"I still love you, and last I checked we're very much married. I'll make it up to you," she said and came over to him. It wasn't the kiss he was expecting, but her hand. She took his in hers with such a gentle touch that he wasn't even aware they were standing hand in hand until he looked down and saw the familiar sight, made himself feel the warmth of her fingers intertwined with his and knew it was real. She was real.

"I missed you, so, so much," he breathed, and then stepped towards her for a kiss that he'd waited three years to give.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Bingo Square: All Sacrificed for Passion

"Kirkwall is around behind you, Champion," Bran said, his eyes narrowed against the smoke and grit flying the air. The window behind her was blown out and the wind blew in every undesirable little particle of ash as it fell from the sky.

"I know," she said, and stood up from where she calmly sat at her desk, in her estate. "And if I could have prevented it I would have done so. But there is nothing more I can do." Norina shook her head sadly and picked up her bag, the one he'd watched her pack.

Bran stepped forward. He wasn't just going to let her leave, not now. She let him advance on her, didn't do anything but look up into his eyes as he stood in front of her. Bran wasn't sure who began the kiss, only that they were kissing. It was as it had always been between them, heated and grasping, mouths demanding and taking, eager and greedy all at once. Hellfire, he'd once called it, when he'd been angry at her. Bran was so often angry at her, enraged by the fact that she did not care to have finesse unless it suited her, didn't bother with subtly when she could be shocking and straight to the point.

And he loved her, despite it all.

When they broke apart, she made to leave, actually leave, without him.

"Bran, I..." she trailed off shaking her head. "There are so many things I should say to you before I leave. You are the worst man I could have possibly loved, and yet I do. Of all the games that have passed between us, my love for you was never one of them. It's as deep and real as the Minanter, and probably just as deadly."

His hard smirk was genuine for what it was worth. 

"But I do have to go, otherwise, we might have had time. Take care of yourself," Nori said, looking at him with real regret. It hung heavy than the greatsword she shouldered, making her beautiful, tired face even more grey with fatigue.

"I don't think so, Champion," he told her. Then he took several steps back out of sight. His own bag was right there, and if he picked it up, declared himself to her, his life as he knew it would be over.

It should have been a monumental choice, a pivotal moment where he decided and chose, but that choice was long past. Bran simply came back with the pack, unfamiliar and heavy after all these years. He was born a merchant and he guessed he'd die one too, as long as it was with her.

"You aren't rid of me so easily, my love" he told her.

"You're leaving Kirkwall? For me?" she asked, but he didn't answer. He just held out his hand for her to take and they, she armored and he clad in the only fitting traveling clothes he could manage to find in his closet (too many silks and doublets and hose, far too much politician, even in these last, awful years) and left the estate.

He didn't look back, but she did. "Goodbye, Mother," she said softly to the house and led him away. "The others are meeting us in the sewer. We'll get you some better boots."

"From where?" Bran asked, raising an eyebrow at her. He was the only merchant around that he could see, and his stock was severely limited, though he was carrying quite a bit of money.

"Off a dead body," she said brightly and he groaned. "Now say goodbye to Kirkwall why you can, love."

"Let it burn," Bran spat and meant it, in that moment. She laughed a nervous, sad laugh and squeezed his hand. 

He was giving it up for her, and there was no need to remember it fondly when it wouldn't be so kind to him. All that mattered now was the woman leading him down into a stinking cesspool called adventure.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Why exactly do you need chloroform at 2AM?”

He was talking in his sleep again, and Nori sat up on one elbow listening to Bran.

The seneschal was a strange man with varied tastes. Most of his midnight mumblings were about his work or aforementioned tastes and desires, he could be very loquacious when prodded. This habit, she knew, was one of the reasons why Bran didn't usually sleep with his paramours. He would slip away in the night or send them off on their way after the sex was over.

He never sent her away, and it made her smile whenever he talked in his sleep. Nori considered a point of honor to listen.

"Need chloroform," he muttered and then made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

She couldn't help herself, she had to ask. “Why exactly do you need chloroform at 2am?”

Bran turned towards her, eyes still closed. He was sleep, she was sure, but he answered in a voice just a little hazy, "Retribution."

Of course that was what he'd say. That was so like Bran she actually checked to make sure he was still sleeping. She decided that she really didn't want to know more than that. Nori could live the rest of her life perfectly fine not knowing why the seneschal to the Viscount of Kirkwall needed to exact retribution.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “So what if I broke my arm I’m still doing it.”

She liked to think she was indestructible, but Bran knew she was not. Not after everything that Kirkwall had put her through. It was amazing that she was still standing and thriving after all of it, but Nori was human, underneath it all, whether she wanted to be or not.

He thought most days she did want to be, until it was inconvenient.

They were snowboarding. Or rather, more accurately, Nori and his son had been snowboarding while he skied, because Bran didn't actually know how to snowboard. They were attending a family wedding in the mountains for a cousin of his, and they'd decided to share a cabin. Cabin was a rather shabby word for the space they inhabited. Yes, it was liberally decorated with rough-hewn wood and heavy timber, but it was a spacious, modern take on traditional woodsy decor. The three bedroom cabin where they were staying was something like the type of place Bran would make a second residence, if he was ever in the market for one.

The splendor of their surroundings, both the cabin and the snowy mountains outdoors was shattered by the fact that when he came in from skiing, face stinging from cold and muscles pleasantly overused, Nori was sitting in the living room with her arm in a sling. She was sitting placidly enough, drinking a mug of something and watching television. Whatever had happened was in the past far enough that she'd gotten pain medication for it.

She wasn't crying, obviously in pain or in any way needy, so he didn't hasten his steps. Carefully, he removed and put away his own things and then went to the bathroom. He was delaying, gathering himself for what was to be a trying a conversation. Whenever she was hurt or ill, Norina got in quite the mood. A broken arm wasn't the worst that had happened to her, but it was enough that he was wary.

"Yes, it's broken," she said when he came into the room, confirming his suspicions that she was in a mood. "And yes, it happened when I was snowboarding. Thank you for sending me off with a, 'try not to break anything'."

"So the fault lay with me?" he asked.

"No, of course not. I just don't want to hear it right now."

"Fine. What are you going to do about tomorrow night?" he asked. The wedding was tomorrow night, and she was supposed to give a reading she hadn't yet memorized. It was on a laminated card.

"I'm going to the wedding, if that's what you're asking. The dress doesn't have sleeves," she told him, but he shook his head.

"Will you be able to do the reading? I can do it if you aren't up to it," Bran offered, but she shook her head.

"You don't want me to stand up with a broken arm at the wedding?" she asked, eyes narrowed in accusation. He wondered how guilty she was feeling about this accident. It was unlike her to turn so venomous so quickly. His Nori was passionate, headstrong but not particularly mean unless something brought it out.

“So what if I broke my arm I’m still doing it. It's just a reading in front of a crowd, not anything physical. I would still be snowboarding if they hadn't made me stop," she told him.

Bran contemplated his next move, quickly listing what he already knew. She was angry, probably embarrassed and defensive. Normally, he would retreat, if it were anyone else this would not be his business. But Bran knew leaving now would give offense when he wanted to support; where he might think he was giving her space, she would see him abandoning her to her injuries and foul mood. So he tried another tactic and moved closer to her on the couch. Gently, carefully, he pulled her against him and whispered, "Was it at least interesting, the way you broke your arm?"

She smelled like snow and ginger in his arms, and the dregs of tea in the mug in her lap. It was hard to not touch her arm, he didn't want to jostle it accidentally, but she leaned into him, letting the angry tension she held drain from her at last. Nori considered his question, and then gave a half-hearted chuckle. "Not really. But I meant what I said. I would still be out there --" 

"Injuring yourself further," he finished and shook his head. "Better to rest now. As you said, you still have a reading to do tomorrow evening, broken arm or no."

He wouldn't have it any other way.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Bingo Card: For the free space I choose 'supplication'.

The Chantry was a rather useful institution as it was, though not especially helpful to him personally most of the time, but professionally, very beneficial. Bran realized this after years of enforced religion, of learning how the structure of the Chantry worked and how to use that inner political scheming to his advantage. But for him personally, there was little use for the Chantry or the notion of faith in his life. 

He was rather bad at being the supplicant when it came to the Maker and Andraste. He believed in the vague sort of way that suited him, but Bran wasn't built for humble. He could be a rather good servant, Maker knew that, he had served for years in so many capacities. 

But her, it was easy to get on his knees for her. Sometimes he even prayed.

He wasn't sure his prayers were worth much these days, or ever, but especially now, but he did pray for her. It wasn't worth wasting his breath to pray for himself. Before he loved her, before he knew he could love her, he still prayed for her because somehow Hawke got stuck with the work even the Viscount couldn't do. 

He'd never prayed for Marlowe until he was gone. Bran prayed for Hawke, but his doubt was stronger than his belief. The Maker was silent, Andraste wept tears for her lost brethren that they could no longer see or know about, and Bran doubted anyone listened to words he was fool enough to whisper when he was at his most alone. It was likely just his vanity that kept him at it, waiting as the sun inevitably set so she could make her way to him in secret.

She did that night. He was quite the supplicant, but this time he was hoping the Maker wasn't listening. His tongue found the spot between her legs that made her shudder, and he applied himself, licking and kissing and sucking until every relevant muscle tensed. The taste of her filled his mouth, and he could never describe it with any of his paltry words, the way she managed to be salty and sweet and bitter milk, but the best and most wonderful thing that had ever covered his tongue all at once.

"I love you, you know," she told him afterwards, as they lay in darkness behind the drapes that shrouded his bed. The winter air still found a way through, but it was a welcome blast of icy cold to dampen the heat that they'd generated between them.

"I know, and more the pity you," he told her. It was his standard response. Tonight, he added to it by saying, "And I love you. I feel as though I could only ever love you now. Maker help us all." But he wasn't talking to the Maker, not really. His truth was only ever for her.

He was good at being her supplicant, though he didn't prefer to use words if he had the choice.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> morning/night kiss prompt

She was _really_ bad at this, and Nori wasn’t used to being bad at anything.

Her whole life she’d been either deliberately at the top of her class, or sometimes, purposefully at the bottom, but she never actually failed unless she chose to do so. It was a thing. She flourished or purposefully didn’t, but it was always her choice. Norina wasn’t actually terrible at much. It was one of the perks of being a chronic overachiever.

But she was bad at this, and she’d somehow thought she’d be really amazing at being a mom. Her mother had been a good example, and her friends weren’t bad at it. Babies were cute and cuddly, and though they cried, she knew logically it was because they couldn’t talk. Her overconfidence started to shake during her last month of pregnancy, when nerves got the better of her. Then she had her baby.

She had her baby.

She felt like she was failing hard up the too-steep curve of motherhood, despite the reassurances of just about everyone she knew. Crying had become a regular daily occurrence, because she was just so bad at this and she had no idea what she was doing. Babies were difficult, strange and unknowable with their smells and smiles and too rare bouts of silence. Colicky crying and stomachaches and diaper changes had her awake all the time, and at this point she felt like a zombie that simply lurched around doing whatever her wailing daughter demanded.

Not all of the tears belonged to the baby, not by a longshot. Even as happy as her baby made her, Nori broke down in tears often for the first few weeks out of the hospital. Infants were something she had no experience with, and despite everything she’d read in books and all the videos she watched, she was so seriously out of her depth that everything made her cry. The baby cried and wasn’t hungry, sleepy or poopy, and Nori cried too. She sobbed when her daughter slept, because she was so tired, and relieved that she got through another day without breaking her baby. Things were getting bad here. Bran was wearing sweatpants. She hadn’t even known that he owned any, but he’d started wearing clothes of the type that distinctly didn’t need an iron.

Babies were so much harder than she’d blithely thought when she’d first entertained the idea of getting pregnant. They were just so much more of everything than she’d ever realized. Who knew it was this hard to take care of a small human? She felt beyond ridiculous, because the slightest coo or smile from her daughter made the endless days of crying evaporate in her memory, fading to nothing until they inevitably started again. Then every new tear felt like a soldier’s slog, and Nori wondered what had possessed her to even want a baby. She was BAD at this.

Bran stayed home from work beyond the month he’d planned to take, because they couldn’t settle into a routine together, at least, not at first. Things got easier after her six week postpartum check up, but her baby still defied a schedule. The healer said it could take about three months for her to start sleeping at night, if not longer. Nori cried when he told her that. Bran had been planning to go back to work after the first month, but delayed it for another six weeks. Normally, she would have taken it personally, but she was exhausted and appreciated his presence far more than she could take offense at it.

But because he was Bran, he was never actually not working. Most of the time his focus was on the baby, but Nori could tell by the quality of his sighing when he was answering emails from work. His job didn’t just pause because he had a more important one to do at home.

She was up with the lark most of the time, and Bran was a night owl. It was easy for them to move into shifts, especially with the baby not sleeping through the night yet. Now that she was a little older, they were getting more then three hours of sleep each night, though it wasn’t much more than that. Nori woke up in the predawn hours, expressed her milk, started the laundry, and took a shower if she was lucky. That morning she even got to have a breakfast bar, before she went into the nursery to see why she’d been granted so much alone time. Usually Bran was handing over the baby so he could shower and sleep as soon as she was up.

Bran was sitting in front of his laptop, bouncing the baby back to sleep. Nori wanted to take the moment to watch them, but he turned towards her in the doorway and got up. Bran gave her a weary nod, but continued what he was doing. The baby mercifully stayed asleep as he transferred her to the bouncing chair, and Nori came over and gave him a kiss. He sank into it, tired, though not too tired to slip her a little tongue. The overgrown stubble on his chin had become a beard while she’d been too busy crying to pay attention, the feeling of it strange as they kissed.

“You’re up early,” he commented when they pulled apart. She reached out with a hand to cup a cheek and he kissed her palm before going back to his computer. “I was going to attempt to finish my emails before I went to bed.”

“What time is it?” she asked, suddenly aware that her alarm hadn’t gone off. She’d just gotten up.

“It’s just now 3:30.” He looked up at her and gave her a small smile. “You could go back to sleep if you want.”

She returned his rare smile with one of her own. “You could also come to bed,” she pointed out. His kiss, this good morning/good night kiss had caught her off guard, but in the best way. It had been a really long time since she’d been kissed like that. Longer still since they’d slept together. For the past two months, she hadn’t felt like doing much of anything, her hormones were all off. But this dark room, the sleeping baby and the way he kissed her, it felt like she was starting to sink back into herself.

And Bran, he was still smiling at her, but it was more pointed now. It seemed to shine through his fatigue, and Nori knew then that she’d been right to ask him to come to bed too. It just had to be her doing the asking. Maybe just this once, while the baby was sleeping, she thought, and as if given her tacit approval, a baby-sized snuffling snore came from where she was sound asleep in her chair.

Blessed by a snoring baby or not, they’d have to hurry.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: an enemy loved

They were so often at odds, even on the smallest of things, it was as if the man lived to be contrary to her. Honestly, she didn't even want to know of him as a person, he was that annoying to her. Norina Hawke had to account for that when she was trying to think of how to best deal with him. She knew little of seneschal Bran, and what was privy to about his personal life was rumor and conjecture. That wouldn't do at all. She needed a plan of attack, she needed facts. She needed him to make things right.

When she tried, oh Maker how she tried to put Kirkwall together again, he stood in the way. It wasn't proper, serah, that wasn't how things were done. Properly, if you could please understand. He seemed like he was always in her damned way, but of course it was done properly.

The last straw was when she found out he'd supported the now deceased Mother Petrice in her scheming. They were enemies, more than they'd ever been allies. They were almost never allied against another force, the only times that sprang to memory was those that put Kirkwall at the forefront against the Qunari.

Come to think on it, there were many more times when they were at odds with each other than it seemed at first, because he was against her in so many of the smaller issues. Bran claimed it was for the good of Kirkwall, he always hid his attentions behind the collective good for the city-state, but she failed to see how Kirkwall benefited from some of the petty, contentious arguments that erupted betwixt the two of them.

And yet there was something besides arguments between them, and it would be foolhardy in the extreme to try to deny it. Neither Hawke nor Bran could be considered fools, and it was with some amusement that she realized they were of the same mind, at least about each other. She wasn't the only one that felt the heat that rose between them whenever they bumped up against one another, which they were doing with alarming regularity.

An alliance, forged at this party. Or a dalliance, if she had to be very precise. Hawke liked being precise, when it suited her. She was good at noticing the details, and knowing when to let her blunter side take command. She suspected that she'd need to be at her most detailed to make this work in her favor.

This party wasn't of her making, it was just convenient timing, though it could hardly be said that Kirkwall was lacking in available party invitations. Indeed, it seemed to her that the worse times were the more it was in fashion to ignore them and throw the biggest event one could manage, always striving to one-up the last dinner, party, musicale, lecture or dance that had been held. It wasn't a game she realized, but a twisted chess match where she couldn't only be the victor.

The party was just another faceless gathering, a vulgar display of wealth on display in an effort to impress. She arrived late, of course, because she could. The house was overlarge, over furnished and boasted a courtyard that made her envious. The starters were delicately displayed along the length of a table, and Hawke took up a prosciutto wrapped slice of melon. As she popped it into her mouth, savoring the delicate mix of sweet and tangy melon against the salty meat, he sauntered over to her and handed her a glass of wine.

It was the first time the seneschal had given her anything, even an inch. Perhaps he too saw that it was time for things to come to their natural conclusion. For all his feigned casualness, he seemed almost eager to spar with her but only after they'd denied each other the pleasantry of courteous greetings. When she came in, she'd seen him, spotted him talking to some nameless Orlesian lordling. He had merely nodded at her, and she did even less, offering a pained blink as her acknowledgement of him. Bran had almost smiled at that, she saw the corner of his mouth twitch upward for a moment, before he mastered his expression.

"Thank you," she said graciously, nodding her head at him. She tried the wine, letting it wash away the taste of the food as he studied her. Her black hair was loose and straightened, falling in one long curtain over her shoulders. In contrast to the much more elaborate curls that were in fashion, it was daring though it was nothing to rival her dress. The sheer silver fabric was covered with beads where it mattered, and she glittered even in the low light. Bran looked as he always did, though less frustrated than when she saw him at the Keep.

"I'm all for encouraging your bad behavior," he said in answer, and Norina wasn't quite sure if he was being sarcastic or not. She took another drink, letting the warm wine settle on her tongue. It was dry where she preferred sweet, but good nonetheless. "Shall we dance?" he asked, in a tone that suggested he didn't care about the answer. She knew he did, or he wouldn't have asked.

"No," she said, and held out her hand to him. She downed her wine, where he just set his nearly full glass down on the table and walked away from it. She let the seneschal dance with her, watched his malicious eyes twinkle with something colder than real amusement as he kissed her hand and invited her to the dance floor. For some reason, she harbored a grain of fondness for that malicious twinkle, even when it was directed at her. Bran was blocking all of her attempts to actually make Kirkwall into a trading powerhouse, as it was once had been. There were so many people that asked Hawke for her help, talked to her about jobs, so many Fereldans, even now, that needed help.

But he wouldn't hear her, no matter what she said. It wasn't what she was saying, it was that she was the one saying it. This time she didn't talk to him at all, they just danced, and he didn't try to break her silence.

He wanted something from her, but she wasn't sure what. They were often up against each other, but this time he was particularly intractable. So they danced, because to refuse would be to never know what he wanted from her, to lose outright. Hawke didn't like losing.

"I didn't think you'd come," he finally said to her.

"I haven't yet," Hawke replied, and Bran made a face at her. The look was so sharp she might have quailed under it if she were the type.

"I meant to my home. You've never bothered before," he replied. Oh, so that's what it was, he'd wanted her to acknowledge his domain. This was his party, his vulgar display of wealth, and his beautiful courtyard. She suppressed a shiver knowing that she walked into his territory so blithely.

"You mean to say I wasn't invited before," she corrected, and he gave her such a sharp smile she could have cut glass on it. She was right of course, but he said nothing to follow up. They just danced, first through one song, and onto the next.

"You've got lovely tits, if you don't mind me saying so," he said as they danced.

"I don't mind. And I bet there's some parts of you that aren't so bad as well. Parts against my thigh."

"Fereldans never do understand subtlety, so I thought I'd make it clear," he responded.

"Hmm," she said, making no indication how she felt about it at all. Instead, she changed the subject, trying her best to ignore the searing heat of his hard cock pressed between as he pulled her closer. "The nobles here seem very impressed by your gaudy show of wealth. You could be Viscount next, if you don't watch out," Hawke told him, but Bran shook his head.

"I don't need any more steps on my career path, thank you, serah."

"I'd want more," Norina said casually, "if I were you. But I like that you haven't died yet. You must be doing something right. Maker knows I can't see it, but it must be so."

"I live for your congratulations," Bran said snidely.

"You should," she said, and he turned to her, about to speak, but stopped himself. Instead, they just stared at each other, eyes locked.

"Come with me," Bran said, before she could say anything else. He dropped her hand and walked away from her without more explanation, and she followed him, staring daggers at his back. He opened a locked door with a key and waited her to pass through it before securing it again behind them.

What she'd first thought was a room turned out to be a balcony, and the stars were bright above them. It looked out over the courtyard she'd passed before. They were well away from the party, the other people, and every reason to be respectable and he still just stared at her. Bran looked at her as she'd been the one to lead him away.

Norina was angry, annoyed with him and generally exhausted, but she wouldn't falter in such an elementary way, not to him. His lips thinned as he looked at her, but she didn't tear her eyes away from his long enough to watch it turn from a sneer into a smirk, though she felt it as the moment twisted into something else. It was too vulnerable to be hard, too secret to be as scathing as their usual routine. Their dynamic changed the moment he took her here, with the beautiful view and snatches of music wafting up from below. When he moved, because it was Bran that broke their stare first, she stepped in to stop him before he could open his fool mouth and ruin everything.

Of course she silenced the words he didn't have a chance to voice by kissing him, but he was expecting it. Not just expecting it, but wanting, waiting for it, for her to do something and make a move he hadn't been empowered to make. For all that she pulled him to her, her lips were gentle as he met them, and the hand that tangled in his messy red hair was soft even if it was demanding. She wanted, and when she parted his lips with her tongue and felt the his enthusiastic response, Hawke realized the depth of the mutual attraction. It wouldn't be Bran if he didn't tease her, and he did, with tongue and hands that skimmed just that much too low on the bodice of her dress and the discreet rotation of his hips to bring his hardness into contact with her much softer parts. She responded in kind, hands touching him more boldly than she should, admiring the surprising definition of his body beneath his silks, pressing herself against him until a whisper couldn't get between their bodies. The rapid tattoo of his heartbeat played against her palm as she slid it over his chest, and she was surprised to find he had a heart working in there.

His hands wanted this dress off of her, but she wasn't ready for that yet. Norina took a step back after they broke for breath, and he let her from his embrace. His golden eyes shone, and she might have mistaken their look for his triumph; she'd seen the way they glittered when he got the last word, when the laws he knew so well toppled an incompetent enemy, but this wasn't it. This was new, wilder and she could call it desire if she wanted to use a tame word for it.

"What will happen after?" she asked, surprised to find her voice was steady as she spoke.

"Are you already begging for seconds before we begin?" he asked, eyebrow arched.

"We're talking terms, Bran."

He shook his head at her, frowning. "I'm not making deals tonight."

"You're never making deals, at least not when I'm involved." She took a step back towards him, and placed her hand over his heart again. She looked up at him as Bran looked down at her. There were only a few inches and it would have been lessened if her dancing slippers weren't flat. The banked lust was still in his eyes, but some of his normal wariness had already returned, seeping into his gaze as he held hers. "Why demand more of me?"

"Because I deserve more from you. The exceptional are held to a higher standard, I thought you understood this, but I must have overestimated your intelligence."

She smiled then, at him, at the compliment and the barb that came with it. "I'll see myself out," she said, all the while knowing she'd be back here soon enough.


End file.
